The Healing
by Geale
Summary: With the end to a war does not come healing. Sometimes it takes a bit of work to get there. Also possibly a werewolf around Christmastime. Bill/Draco SLASH.


**Summary:** With the end to a war does not come healing. Sometimes it takes a bit of work to get there. Also possibly a werewolf around Christmastime.

 **Pairing:** Bill/Draco

 **Rating:** T

 **Warnings:** Some angst, hints of PTSD and internalised homophobia. SLASH.

 **Disclaimer:** The world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.

 **A/N:** As is tradition (it's not, but go with it please thank you) here is some Bill/Draco for your holiday needs. It may have turned out a bit angstier than originally planned (and slightly sappier) but I hope you like it. Also, no Fleur.

Happy Christmas!

 **The Healing**

You would have thought that Harry Potter's insufferable heroics would have put the world to rights. It would have been just like him to not only defeat the Dark Lord but also make everything else whole again. Make the sun come out, so to speak. Heal all wounds.

As it turned out, Potter did not possess that type of magic. His dare-to-believe-it so incredibly soft-hearted and ridiculously effective Disarming of You-Know-Who only brought the war to an end. It did not revive the dead or take away the pain. Actually, it _did_ bring the sun out but it did not erase the inked-in memory on the inside of Draco Malfoy's wrist.

Maybe the foul magic of the Dark Mark played a part in why Draco, as he stood listening to Molly Weasley fight tooth and nail to gain temporary custody of him, had a hard time wrapping his head around what he was hearing. Traces of rumours, shards of promises still wove into his half-shaped thoughts. Whispered threats, hissed accusations… Forked, cold tongues that pressed words into his ear that he did not want to hear yet could not ignore. If he only did this, only did that…

 _The Malfoy boy… Such sweet victory! If only… Ah, but it was a waste–_

All around them was shattered stone. The sun had shakily broken into the sky some hours earlier and now it bleakly shone through the dust that was still trying to settle. Draco's skin felt tight over his cheekbones. He knew that was because of the tears and he hoped the soot hid the traces well. Malfoys, as it happened, did not cry.

His mother had, though, when it was finally over and the Malfoys discovered that they were still alive. She had crushed Draco to her chest in a way he could not remember her ever having done before. Her hair was in disarray and her eyes wild, and she still looked like that when the Aurors swept in and locked her wrists behind her back by Conjured golden ropes. She had screamed, then, and made an effort to reach Draco, and it was as awful as it was wonderful. He had known before it happened, he supposed, that his mother loved him. Now he had seen it, too.

His father had not said much. His long hair was tangled and his eyes were pools of shadow. He had tried to tell Draco something but never got the words past his dry, chapped lips. His hands had trembled a bit, though, as the shock swam through him. He had gone with the Aurors quite willingly.

And that was that. That was the end. This...

Draco glanced down at his own hands and saw – as if from a distance – that they, too, were shaking. The dark humour of it was a cruel taste on his tongue.

 _Like father, like son._

Or maybe not, but they _were_ weak. No wonder the Dark Lord's slitted eyes were ever on them. Their nauseating red a constant fire that burned itself into Draco's nightmares – watchful, gauging, judging, _knowing..._

For a moment, the blistered stone under his feet seemed to sway. Mrs Weasley's cascade of words rang shrilly through the hazy sunlight, rang through his head like the twisted toll of a cracked bell. It made bile rise in his throat and he swallowed hard. It helped a little so he decided that if he just kept swallowing he might stay upright.

"...nowhere to go!"

He blinked. Who had nowhere to go?

The owls certainly did not, he observed, feeling the world tilt sideways as he glanced up. A part of the Owlery was blasted off he saw: there was a gaping hole in the tower. As if some enormous beast had taken a greedy bite right out of it with no pity for the birds.

But Draco Malfoy was not supposed to care about birds. That was silly. Birds were silly. Just like other people. People who were not Malfoys.

He gingerly lowered his gaze, dragged it over ruined stone and shards of stained glass. He was not supposed to care about that either. Hogwarts had only ever been a stepping-stone to future success. Allegedly.

Try as he might, in this moment, Draco did not feel particularly successful.

"You must understand..."

Oh, he did. He swallowed again against the bitterness.

He understood.

The sun has gone mad. Sunlight was supposed to be bright and warm but Draco felt cold. Light that was not light swam around him, catching in the glass on the ground. It sang back at him: cold, too, and harsh. The stained glass... that was not stained.

Draco squinted and tried to keep his feet on the ground. Oh, but it _was_ stained. Only, there were no blues or greens or yellows. Only red. Red, red, red that had nothing to do with fine arts or the careful blending of pigments. No, it was the red of his Master's eyes. And those were blood.

He had seen them as they were taken away. He had seen the Dark Lord's body land with a pathetic _thud_ on the floor of the Great Hall.

It was over.

Potter had won.

They were safe.

-xxx-

So. You would have thought that Harry Potter's insufferable heroics would have made everything go away: all the memories and all the hurt. Mostly because that seemed like something Saint Potter of course would have been able to do. And probably unintentionally, too. The dimwit. (Fifty points for Gryffindor!) Alas, not so.

Which is a shame, Draco reflects, as the late November mist gradually blends with the growing dark of night. It has been raining for almost an entire week and the dying garden grass lies long and glistening in the meagre portion of light that spills out onto it from the kitchen window. Draco is just above the kitchen, in his own little room that had been a closet up until the moment he arrived at The Burrow. With the help of a handful of spells, Mr Weasley had created a tolerable space for sleeping. He even gave Draco a window.

Not that Draco had cared much for the shape and size of the room in those first moments; he had only had eyes for the bed. And not even afterwards, when he had slept for half a day and an entire night had he found he had much to say about it. It was tiny and smelled vaguely of old parchment and rarely used linens, but that was fine. The walls were a hideous, bright orange, but…

On some nights, when the skies are clear, he drags an old quilt around his shoulders and curls up at the foot of the bed to look at the moon as it sails among the stars above them. Above _him_. As if to say that there are still beautiful things in the world that he is allowed to see.

-xxx-

Potter stays with them, too. He bunks with Ron even though Draco is certain he would rather share a room with Ginny. Those two are too bloody obvious. Just like Ron and Granger before she went back to Hogwarts to attain her N.E.W.T.s.

 _Hermoine_ , he supposes.

She is quite the enigma. By all rights, she should hate him. They all should. He has done awful things, he knows that. Calling Granger _Mudblood_ a few times at school is nothing compared to everything that followed. Even so, she never was anything but civil to him during the summer and during her fire chats with the others, at times she asks about him. Which is definitely more than he deserves.

And, to be honest, the same goes for Potter. He, too, is civil to Draco. Even tries to crack a joke now and again. Draco never knows how to respond to that so it usually falls flat between them and an uncomfortable silence follows during which Draco always feels like his own tongue is too big for his mouth. Potter makes a face, then, and sometimes even has the audacity to look exasperated. That is when Draco leaves the room.

Flees. If we are to be completely honest. And it is _Harry_.

Draco contemplates, not infrequently, how honesty has played a part in his life up until now. How he can ever be comfortable with it. What the Weasleys, and Potter and Granger, would tell him if they were being honest with him. What – if the tables were turned – he would tell them.

Those are the kinds of thoughts that churn through his mind as the moon floats through the sky at night and drowns the orange of the walls of his tiny bedroom in silver.

-xxx-

One December morning, he finds them huddled together at one end of the kitchen table, scrambled eggs and tea cooling at their elbows. Ginny is the first to notice him and she snaps her mouth shut before he is even over the threshold. Ron follows her example, but Harry and George appear more thoughtful than cautious. They even exchange a _look_.

"Draco," says Harry. "Good morning."

Draco nods in reply. How to wish somebody a good morning without making it sound like he has ulterior motives is something he thinks he ought to secretly practice.

He can feel their eyes on his back as he fixes himself some toast and a cup of tea. It is a grey sort of day and from where he stands it looks as though the grass would crunch under his feet if he stepped outside. The kitchen is warm, though, and somebody should do the dishes. He thinks that maybe one day that person should be him. Still, it is hard to work out a plan when he can feel them watching him from across the table.

It is only when he pulls out a chair – two seats away from Harry – that George speaks up:

"He should know."

A reluctant noise is apparently all that Ron is willing to give. Draco concentrates on his toast, not deigning any of them with a glance.

"He needs to, though, Gin."

Harry's voice is entirely different when he speaks to her. Well, not _entirely_ different, perhaps, but there is a shift in it towards the gentler, sort of. Which is not something Draco is sure is the smartest. Ginny, he has grudgingly admitted to himself, is the Weasley he might like the most, if he were giving it a try. She has some fire in her that he could appreciate, possibly.

"Maybe he'll eat him. Serves him right, I reckon."

Draco has no time to react before George clicks his tongue. "Not very nice of you, little brother."

That is when he looks up, but they are all looking at Ron. Who makes a face and sits back in his chair. "Fine."

George still has plenty of shadows playing on his face. Draco never once – during his years at Hogwarts – reflected on what the twins actually look like, but there is something to be said for George's ready smile and the twinkle in his brown eyes. Those are, of course, rare sights these days, but he is not altogether utterly unattractive, Draco supposes. If good news would have the decency to trickle out of St Mungo's any time soon, that would give Draco a chance to enjoy George's smile a bit more often.

Which is such an absurd train of thought that Draco Malfoy should be ashamed of himself. Besides, they were just implying that he might be eaten alive and surely that is more important right now.

"What are you on about?" he asks now, and maybe he had not intended for it to be so, but that becomes the first thing he says this day.

They share another long look until Harry says:

"Bill got in last night."

Which is something that means absolutely nothing to Draco.

"OK," he says.

"He's a werewolf," ventures Ginny, her eyes sharp on him.

Which is something that merits mentioning, indeed.

"He's been helping with the… um… cleaning up, I guess." Harry is looking uncomfortable, as though he wants to explain but lacks the proper words for it. "I know Hagrid asked for his help just after…"

He trails off but does not need to finish. They all know.

"He'll have some tales to tell," says George, before a heavy silence settles over the kitchen. "When he's up for it."

 _A werewolf._

Draco has a thousand questions but asks none. It starts in the vicinity of his heart: a chill spreads through him, making his blood run cold and his stomach turn over. It is impossible to forget the dull gleam of yellowed teeth bared in the mockery of a smile… Fenrir Greyback had been one of the Dark Lord's most… _eager_ henchmen for the only reason that sinking his teeth into children would swell the werewolf ranks. The tales _he_ told…

His tea tastes bitter. He swallows it down nonetheless and tries to act as though this bit of news is nothing to him. In any case, how does even a pathetic Weasley make a half-decent werewolf?

At least, that is what he would try to say if he were forced to speak.

"I bet mum's overjoyed." Ron's voice breaks through the budding fear. "She'll have another one to fuss over, now that we're all fattened up again."

That makes no sense at all if Draco knows anything about werewolves, which he does. But he does not say that either. The chill is creeping up his spine. It has claws that dig into his skin and make him want to throw up. The bitter taste of his tea causes his tongue to shrivel in his mouth and his hands have by now turned to ice. There is a faint ringing in his ears. As far as Draco Malfoy knows, only one thing can whet the appetite of a werewolf and that is not one of Mrs Weasley's steak and kidney pies.

"Best leave him be for a while." George is getting up, and the others follow. "He'll show up when he feels like it."

They file out of the kitchen, leaving Draco at the table. Only Harry hesitates, one foot on the threshold. He glances back – half turns back – and his clear green eyes fix on Draco's face.

"He's not _that_ kind of werewolf, Draco," he says, softly.

Which surely is a lie.

-xxx-

They spend the day sorting through endless boxes of Christmas ornaments, on Mrs Weasley's order. Draco joins them after a while because he has nothing else to do. He would never admit to it aloud but it also makes him feel safer. If there is a werewolf in the house, surely his chance of survival is greater amongst the rest of them.

"This is yours, Gin, remember?"

Ginny inspects the bauble Ron is holding up for her scrutiny. It is a pretty one, frosted on the top with fake snow and a delicate swirl of lines, painted underneath in a gleaming purple.

"Yes," she says, a dry twist to her voice. "I also remember the Christmas you chose to use it as a Bludger."

"Hey, it healed up nicely." Ron's grin is wide.

Before he knows what he is doing, Draco has opened his mouth to comment. Maybe to take her side – share in the good-natured ribbing. He closes it before any words spill from his lips. They would all stare at him, wonder if he has lost his mind. Instead, he maintains his silence. He never meant for himself to feel this way but sometimes it is difficult, on some occasions, to distance oneself.

"Oh look!" George has pulled something green and shiny out from one of the boxes. "You should have this one, Malfoy. Suits you." His smile is a mixture of everything: glee, challenge and good humour.

He is holding out another glass ornament: a green dragon with a wreath of holly around its neck and a red ribbon tied around the end of its tail.

"I reckon mum got it when Charlie first began showing an interest in dragons." He drags the pad of his thumb over the shiny scales. "It's a bit chipped in places so don't cut yourself."

And he holds it out for Draco to take.

It is quite ugly. It is also the first Christmas ornament he has ever got.

-xxx-

Something wakes him in the middle of the night. A nightmare, possibly, or the wind throwing itself at Draco's window. He remains still for a while, hoping to fall back to sleep, but that does not happen. The moon has circled the sky and is no longer visible from his room so everything is dark. There is a nagging feeling within, almost as if he were restless. It makes no sense but it finally urges him out of bed.

He has no plan when he pushes the bedroom door open and steps out onto the darkened landing. He could get a drink of water, he half-heartedly decides and makes to turn towards the stairs when there is a heavy creak of wood behind him.

He whips around, trained to respond as he is, his hand failing to find a wand in his sleeve. Here, now, is the moonlight, and a shadow looming in a doorway.

His heart is in his mouth but he does not scream. He was taught not to. Never scream. Never break into the fear.

Never fear.

But the shadow moves and silver light spills onto it and reveals form but no details. It is a man. Before his eyes, the years spin and blend together and Draco's insides are ice.

"Sorry."

The low rasp almost drowns in the ringing through Draco's ears. The shadow raises a hand.

"Didn't mean to scare you."

Everything dies down – if slowly. The shadow moves again, turns a little more into the uneven light and the silver falls on long hair that hangs tangled around a handsome face. As far as Draco can see, anyway.

"I was going to take a bath," the man continues, before he pauses for a moment. "Are those my old pyjamas?"

"You can have them back." It tumbles out of Draco. Pathetically, his hands move over his hips as if to show his willingness to strip naked and give anything he has borrowed back to the shadow. If that means he will get to live. "I… I didn't know."

There is a twist of a sound, like a throaty chuckle. "Keep them."

Then he takes a step closer and for the first time Draco realises – on every level – that the man in front of him is bare-chested.

"I'm Bill. And you're Draco Malfoy."

Draco nods. The rasp of the other man's voice sinks into his skin to race through his bones. And because he is weak and feeble and surely created solely to embarrass the Dark Lord, his traitorous gaze slips across those broad shoulders and down whatever is visible of the naked chest. He hates himself for it, but he cannot stop himself. He never could.

So he flinches away – from a touch that is not even coming. He tears his eyes from the man before him and stumbles back over his threshold. He closes the door behind him. It was always safer to hide.

As the night continues to turn and his breathing comes back to normal he plays the memory of the encounter over and over again in his mind. Finally, he falls asleep into shadowy dreams.

-xxx-

He does not see Bill the next day. Or the one after that. Apparently he has left again, after a night in his old room and a bath. The Weasleys visit St Mungo's and return with news of Fred: he seems to be responding a bit to being spoken to. There is a new light in George's eyes. Other than a few well-planned visits to the hospital, none of them are allowed to leave the house: it is either at home or at Hogwarts. It is still too dangerous.

Two weeks into December, snow begins to fall. Even inside The Burrow the air clears a little and the last agony of Draco's brief meeting with Bill is swept away. He has said nothing of it, and apparently neither did Bill.

Ron complains a bit about his elder brother not bothering to stay for a few days but then he receives word that Hermione will pop in for a visit after Christmas and that shifts his focus tremendously. Draco mostly stares out the window, wondering if something will ever change for him.

-xxx-

He still uses the pyjamas. He is dressed in it now, as he makes his way up the stairs to his little bedroom. His thoughts are far away and that is why he does not immediately jump when he spots warm light spilling out onto the landing. It only takes a moment for his pulse to catch up with his eyes, though, and a cold rush of dread claims his heartbeat.

The door to the other bedroom is half-open. A grunt comes leaping out into the dense silence at Draco's feet. He stands there, immobile, as another sound falls out of the room. This time, more like a growl.

It makes the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Carefully, he climbs the last step. His lips are dry as Snape's powdered bats' wings. If he can slide into his bedroom and…

"Draco?"

He digs his blunt nails into the palms of his hands. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.

"I can hear you."

Suddenly the light and the shadows are shifting and in no time at all, a tall man appears in the door opening. Bill's hair hangs loose around his face and he is not wearing a shirt this time either.

There is a pause. Draco is sure he can hear his own heartbeat as the light continues to shine over Bill's exposed shoulder and melt against his long red hair. If this is the werewolf that will kill him, Draco is oddly satisfied with that. He is also terrified. Yet curious. He should know better, of course, for that is precisely the concoction that always makes him drunk on the illusion of his impending victory. It was also always his undoing. As if to remind him, his skin stings where he is marked.

It is where the Dark Lord dragged a cold finger over his skin, followed his veins and tapped them lightly.

 _So willing. So pathetic. So very useful._

"You can help me with something."

Draco blinks and the first floor landing comes into shape again. And so does the man before him. Bill is holding something. It looks like a jar, when Draco finally lays eyes on it.

"Would you help me? I have some scratches and burns that need to be treated and I can't reach them all by myself."

There is no reason for why he should agree and yet his feet steer him towards the door and the man waiting on the threshold. He is almost able to draw breath again when Bill turns his head and the light falls into his face and illuminates it. All of it.

Draco bites back a gasp.

It is probably not that hideous but the shock worsens his reaction. The scars run down his cheek, down his temple. The are other markings, too, not as deep but darker in colour, as though somebody has dragged dirty fingers over his skin. Fingers… or claws. A shiver that is mostly fear races across Draco's own skin, so pearly perfect by comparison. That is, except for the stain on the inside of his wrist, which he hates. It is ugly enough to compete with the scars on Bill Weasley's face.

But his eyes are blue. And beyond the scarring he looks tired.

When he spots that, Draco's fear dies down a little.

"I'm sorry, I know it's late," says Bill.

He is moving again, walking into the bedroom and sitting down on the bed. Draco has never seen this room before. It has two beds, in fact, and a wobbly bookshelf and a notched desk crammed into a corner alongside a towering closet. The light comes from a lamp in the window.

"You don't say very much, Draco Malfoy." He runs a hand through his flaming red hair.

He is well-muscled. The lamplight plays on his shoulders and upper arms and… and the burns there. There are several of them: large patches that gleam ominously are strewn across his skin.

This pulls Draco forward. He comes to stand a few feet away with his eyes glued to the burns. They look like they hurt. He accepts the jar and cautiously sniffs the content. Beeswax, probably, mixed with essential oils and crushed herbs. Scooping out a small amount he finds that the salve melts nicely against his skin, even though his fingers are not particularly warm.

He swallows. Then he takes a couple of steps closer. Bill's eyes are heavy on him. He can feel their blue fire burn into him before the older man shifts to sit with his back to Draco. Slowly, Draco lowers his hand to Bill's shoulder and, as gingerly as he possibly can, rubs the salve into the first burn.

The hiss is almost enough to chase him out of the room.

"I'm sorry!" The apology rushes out of him as his hand freezes in the air over Bill's skin. "I won't… I mean…"

 _I'm sorry, My Lord._

"No, go on." Bill's head has dropped forwards but he is shaking it. "Go on."

So he does, even with fear stirring in the corners of his mind. He scoops up a bit more of the salve and works it into the burns, works his way over Bill's back where he cannot reach himself and prays that the second and third grunts Bill emits are not indicative of any displeasure with him. He barely breathes – his heart barely beats.

Bill's skin is marred here also: there are scratches and cuts, old and new. But there are freckles, too, and all of a sudden another grunt turns into a soft moan and Draco's cheeks blossom with heat. Draco, ever the traitor to his own pure blood, as if cursed, dares to continue his ministrations for a while after he really is done, stroking his fingertips over the freckled skin and the curve of muscle. As if transfixed by the gentle touch of light to the skin, he watches his own pale fingers move, and trepidation reluctantly retreats to leave some space for something very different…

"Thanks." Bill has raised his head.

Draco falls back into his body. His fingers are sticky and Bill's skin is glistening with the salve. The older man twists his head around now.

"Thanks," he says again.

He can only nod. And give back the jar.

"I should let you get some sleep. Make good use of my pyjamas." His blue eyes twinkle and because Draco will never learn, his cheeks burn again.

He allows it. That is what they told him. He is not strong enough. It was all in his head, they said. He never tried hard enough. He had, though. He had taken all of his suppressed longings and channelled them into spite and anger. He had sneered and cursed himself blue in the face but always – always when he was not prepared – unlooked for attraction hit him sideways and sent him back to the bottom. Only some of the Slytherins dared a genuine smile at him, but that had made no difference. They were human also, despite what the other students thought.

It had been Blaise the first time: his bright smile at Draco had set the latter's brain melting. They were young then, only kids with no knowledge of what war was. It was only some years later that Blaise's smile had begun doing other things to Draco that he truly understood what was wrong with him. He had avoided Blaise for weeks after that, as best he could, and built up a rage so consuming that it made him frightened of himself. It did not last long. Before he knew it, his rage was twisted into fear and fear rarely let go.

"Draco?"

Bill is standing. He is taller than Draco by a couple of inches. He smells of the herbs and the beeswax and it makes Draco's thoughts tangle into knots.

"Thank you."

Draco nods. He does not know where to look so he backs away, leaving Bill by the bed. When the shadows finally wrap around him on the landing, tears are stinging his eyes as if they do not know he never cries.

-xxx-

The evenings are long. Mrs Weasley spends them knitting and nervously watching the clock that tells her that her husband and Percy are still somewhere out there, doing whatever Ministry personnel is doing to sort things out. Ron and George play an unhealthy amount of Exploding Snap while Harry and Ginny just… talk.

Draco watches them on these nights: how they sit close on the sofa and speak in lowered voices and how his eyes shine when he looks at her. She shines, too, even though she at times looks ready to shove an elbow in his ribs. When she laughs, Draco turns his eyes away.

It is during one of those evenings that there is a sudden blinding rip of light outside the window, accompanied by a roar and then a sharp twist of sound that cuts through the walls of the house. No one has time for anything before the front door bursts open and a man tumbles through. Before he is on the floor, Harry has whipped out his wand and so have George and Ginny. Even Draco is ready. Then Mrs Weasley cries out and – yarn flying – sprints towards the crumpled body on the hallway carpet.

"Bill! Darling!" She falls to kneel beside him and begins to tear at his cloak.

Finally, she manages to reveal his face and Ginny gives a shriek.

"George..! Get, get…"

"Ron, in the kitchen..."

"Mrs Weasley…"

"Mum…"

They all freeze. Bill blinks, a ghost of a smile curving his pale lips. "Mm'OK. Rebounded, s'all…"

Ginny collapses in Harry's arms. Draco relaxes his death grip on his wand and is vaguely grateful for the wall behind him.

" _William Weasley!"_ Mrs Weasley's shrill tones cut through the night. "What is that supposed to mean, 'is all'? You scared us half to death!"

Through the haze of relief that is wrapping around Draco, he recognises that he might not be the only one who transforms fear into anger.

-xxx-

The house is quiet. Draco has brushed his teeth and is about to slip inside his bedroom when a noise from the other room stops him. He should not. He knows as much. On so many occasions he should _never_ have made that choice, turned that corner, opened that door. But he seems unable to stop himself. Just as he cannot stop ogling blokes like some Mudblood who does not have to concern themselves with furthering their bloodline – ensuring their legacy – he seems unable to stay out of trouble.

Much like Harry, he reflects with a dash of unexpected humour.

That is why he abandons his door and makes for the other one. It is firmly closed and the best thing he could do would be to step away and bury himself under the blankets in his own bed. But he does not.

No, because he never learns, he lifts a hand to knock softly.

A grunt greets him. He interprets it to his own favour and pushes the door open a fraction. The room is dark. He pushes a little further until he could slip inside if he were brave enough.

"Whatever you're here to do," Bill's raspy voice drifts out to him. "If it entails more scolding I'll bite you."

It should frighten him but somehow it does not. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The room smells of potions and more salve. When his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he can make out Bill on the bed. On his back, probably.

Draco comes to stand by the bedside.

He can see the glimmer of Bill's eyes now. Maybe also the way his long hair spreads out over his pillow or perhaps he is imagining that. It makes no matter, though, for Bill pats the bed, indicating he should sit.

But he should not. He should not because that is only further proof of his inability to be the son his father deserved. Or had deserved, before he, too, fell from the Dark Lord's graces. Yet, that was always what Bellatrix told him, was it not? That Lucius deserved a good son, a son he could be proud of. If Bellatrix could see him now, she would curse him until he lay dead on the floor.

Dead on the floor…

Draco sinks down to sit at Bill's side. The wintry shadows play with starlight on Bill's face of which, truth be told, Draco can see very little. He can hear his own blood pounding in his head though.

"What's it like?"

It slips out of him, the question.

There is silence. Then Bill sighs. "Ugly. But we're making progress. The last of the escaped Death Eaters are being rounded up." He pauses again. "There will be trials. For your mother and father both, did they tell you?"

"No." It comes out quite strangled. He swallows down the weakness.

"After the holidays," continues Bill, and his voice is treacherously soft. "Anyway, I've been helping Hagrid… The war brought many fell creatures out of hiding. I've been… changing… a lot. With the help of magic, when the moon isn't full. It is… taxing."

Draco nods. Mostly because he can think of no other reaction. He sits staring into the shadows when suddenly something brushes against his cheek. It turns him rigid in an instant.

Bill is cupping his cheek, simply touching him. It turns the air in his lungs into iron and his skin icy cold. But Bill does not remove his hand. Nor does he much move it. He just cups Draco's cheek while stroking his thumb slowly over his cheekbone.

Everything comes to a standstill. Then Bill closes his eyes and so the starlight has to find somewhere else to play. His hand falls away slowly, to land in Draco's lap. Open. And his breathing evens out.

-xxx-

Nights become his time. As Christmas approaches, Draco finds his feet steering him towards Bill's bedroom after the rest of the house has fallen silent. He pushes open the door and steps into shadow and starlight and – on this night – the glow of a lit candle.

Bill is seated on the bed with his battered back to Draco. There are new markings on his skin and one of them even looks lite a bite. Neither of them speak as Draco unscrews the lid of the jar and sets to work, rubbing the salve into the abused skin. He climbs onto the bed for better reach and comes to kneel behind Bill. The older man hangs his head as Draco smooths his palms over his tense muscles and the freckles.

Then, when Draco's fingertips – by mistake for sure – brush his collarbone, Bill catches his hand in one of his. Draco stumbles on his next breath as Bill pulls at him, urges his palm to stroke over his chest instead, and over a nipple. Draco's head swims and he can taste blood but he complies, drowning his fear in the heady scent of the herbs and the way Bill allows him to navigate his chest hair.

That is when Bill turns his head to press his nose into Draco's arm, into his own old pyjama shirt.

"I know you're afraid," he murmurs. "Don't be."

Draco's hand on his chest loses all sensation. He cannot move. If the Dark Lord ever finds ou–

"Draco."

Bill is turning in his seat. Letting go. His blue eyes are sharper than Draco has seen them before.

"You are not alone."

He always was, though. Or so they told him. He was different. Not deserving. He needed to be sorted out, needed to keep himself in check. Needed to overcome his shameful desires.

Bill is moving, he is coming even closer, making Draco scramble back on the bed. He wants to leave and hide and if there is any grace left in this world they will both forget this ever happened and Bill's eyes will not be burning like that and Draco's hands will not be burning either because all he wants is to touch.

When he reaches the headboard, he is exhausted. He presses back into it as Bill kneels in front of him. He is only wearing pyjama bottoms and Draco would give both his hands if that meant he did not wish to look. To drink in the muscled arms and narrow waist and the way the meagre light dances in Bill's hair. So he screws his eyes shut and holds his breath.

It rushes out of him when Bill takes his hand. He gently laces their fingers together.

"All I smell on you…" he says, quietly. "All that you want to do… I want too."

-xxx-

The crescent of the waxing moon lights up the sky. Snow began falling around lunchtime but the skies cleared after supper and now the moon sails among the stars, strewing silver into Draco's tiny bedroom. They have propped themselves up against some pillows. Draco against Bill, who is warm like smouldering embers. Draco is not as warm, but it is OK.

They are naked. Draco's back against Bill's chest. Bill's hand, leisurely, lazy, stroking. It makes Draco want to squirm but he manages to lie perfectly still, save for a few shivers and shudders. There is tension in him still, the ghosts watchful, he supposes. But Bill is a werewolf and can scare them off if necessary.

Bill's hand moves over him, over his belly and his hip until he can wrap his fingers around Draco's length. This is what finally makes him move. Bill's chuckle winds around him as Bellatrix hollers curses from the corners of Draco's mind. He moves against those, too, bucks into Bill's grasp without meaning to and making a ripple of pleasure steal through him.

Bill's hand is fire, a gentle one, heating him up from within. It counters the memories, calls them out. Draco hears himself moan as the moonlight falls on the green dragon on the windowsill, with that stupid wreath around its neck and all its glittering scales.

He opens his eyes as Bill reveals the head of his cock to the light. He blushes as he looks down on himself, the way he lies displayed. Maybe it is due to embarrassment. Bill does not seem to mind, however, as his other hand comes to urge Draco into an awkward sort of backwards kiss. It does not matter that his neck is locked in a weird position for Draco dissolves. He floats through this kiss, through the gradually intensifying tugging on his length, and when Bill shifts and Draco can feel _his_ cock press against his buttocks, everything else is ground to dust.

By the time Draco no longer can feel his legs and his own release is all over Bill's hand and his own stomach, Bellatrix's shouting has stopped. And when Bill lightly bites into his shoulder and his raspy murmur in Draco's ear makes him shiver all over again, he knows he could never want anything else:

"Next time I want to be inside you."

Surely Draco was made for this?

-xxx-

Fred will not be home for Christmas but maybe for New Years. He is now awake for a few hours here and there, and this is all the Weasleys need for Christmas. Since they cannot go shopping, presents are off the list of things needed to be dealt with anyway and, for this, Draco is infinitely grateful. He would have no idea what to get any of them.

For what to give to the people who gave you a second chance? Well, as for Ron, he still shows signs of not trusting Draco with much more beyond setting the table. Ginny, however, is warming up to him and Harry tries his best at cracking the worst jokes while George is still recovering from the trauma of having nearly lost his twin. Draco sometimes indulges Harry with a smile, if he gets the timing right.

"Thank you," he tells her, just as she is about to blow out the candles on the mantelpiece.

Mrs Weasley turns to him. For a moment, she simply looks at him. She is still wearing her apron even though the last of the cooking was completed hours ago.

"Oh." In the half-light her brows draw together and she presses her lips into a line. For a moment, he thinks she is holding back harsh words but then she blinks quite rapidly several times.

And she comes up to him, too, and pats his cheek. "Oh dear. Of course." She pushes a smile through her tears. "Of course."

He would get her anything if he could.

"Now. You should get yourself to bed." She lets him go, but only after squeezing his shoulder. "And tell Bill I expect his presence at breakfast like any other decent human being. Being a werewolf is no excuse for missing family breakfast on Christmas Day."

He opens his mouth to protest, to object or deny but he has forgotten the lies.

"Right," he hears himself say instead.

"That's a good boy." She straightens. "Given some time, I reckon you'll be quite the son-in-law, Draco."

If she winked, he did not catch it. His feet steer him up the stairs and into his bedroom where he sheds the shirt and trousers somebody once fetched for him from his dormitory at a battered Hogwarts. While the world was convulsing in pain and it had turned out Harry Potter's magic could not heal all wounds.

He leaves the pyjamas and his bed untouched.

Bill is already buried under the covers. The older man heaves a deep sigh as Draco climbs in beside him. A large hand reaches for him and Draco moves to lie against Bill, melting into the heat he is offering.

"Your mother wants to see you at breakfast," he says, almost losing his voice as Bill half rolls on top of him and presses a kiss to the base of his neck.

Maybe he means it as a test by which to gauge Bill's reaction? They have not officially owned up to any sort of _relationship_ after all.

Bill's growl reverberates through him. "It'll not be a pretty sight," he warns. Then he takes the time to open his mouth on Draco's skin and sink a new kiss into it.

"I'm sure that's fine," he manages, while also grabbing a handful of pillow. The evidence of Bill's interest in him is clear against his thigh. Hard proof, so to speak.

"Wait…" Bill's mouth leaves his skin. "She knows?"

A new type of coldness draws in over Draco's heart. "So it seems."

There is another pause, a dreadful one, during which Draco can feel himself sinking deep into waters he knows all to well.

"Good." Bill relaxes, his mouth once more hot and wet on Draco's neck. "Spares us the chore of telling her."

'Right,' Draco wants to say, but there is something in his throat, blocking the way.

But then Bill is fully on top of him and his kisses on Draco's neck are liquid fire, and he has Draco spread his legs and emit all kinds of sounds no respectable son of Lucius Malfoy should.

The funny thing is that Draco is close to not caring about that anymore. And later, when they have lit a couple of candles so that he can inspect the tear of Bill's latest wound and the latter lifts a hand to his cheek to angle his face into the light…

Bill is sated, his blue eyes soft. His thumb moves over Draco's cheekbone.

"Merry Christmas."

Draco nods. "Merry Christmas."

Bill's thumb sinks to drag over his lower lip. "You know, soon I'll be done with helping Hagrid. You'll see much more of me then, if you want to."

The candlelight flickers and sends a dance of shadows over his scarred face. Granted, they are only Weasleys but… perhaps one day becoming a son-in-law might actually mean more than just being a son… Perhaps. If he will not first discover that he is son enough.

Draco nods again. Bill smiles. And there is only this.

 **The End**


End file.
